


Or It Malingers

by twobirdsonesong



Series: Prufrock Verse [3]
Category: CrissColfer - Fandom, Glee RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Prufrock verse, RPF, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it’s just too much to take, but at least they have each other to soothe the rough edges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or It Malingers

It was late when they started filming that night and it’s even later now.  It’s verging on early, even, and if Chris sees the first edges of morning start to break on the horizon, he’s going to tear his goddamn hair out.

He doesn’t want to be back here.  He doesn’t want to be doing  _this_  again.  Yes, he’s an actor – a performer.  He loves the drama of it, of playing the hurt and the pain and the aching longing.  He loves pulling those emotions from his soul and letting them show on the planes of face and the depth in his eyes and the tremor of his voice.  It feels good to know that he’s  _capable_  of it and to see the response he gets from people because of it.  But this, this is too much.  And it’s not just the politics of filming.  It’s not just that he feels like he doesn’t know what’s going on anymore. 

It goes beyond that, and that scares him.

Another break is called, one of the endless succession of starts and stops that he’s never gotten fully used to, and Chris wipes surreptitiously at his eyes.  Chris’ face feels hot and his hands are trembling, just a little.  The tears are real; they almost always are, but this time especially so.  There’s something about the song and the way Darren’s expression crumples in misery over and over again, take after take, that’s pushing open closed-off chambers of his heart.  Chris startles when he hears shoes scuffling against the concrete – a low, careful sound of hesitation – and he looks back over his shoulder.

Darren is standing just behind him, closer than he was when  _cut_  was called. His hands are shoved down deep into his pockets and he’s dragging the toe of his shoe across the ground as his gaze flits over Chris’ face.  His eyes are red-rimmed and shuttered and Chris’ heart clenches when Darren sniffs – a quiet, heartbreaking sound amidst the din of the filming crew around them. 

“Hey,” Chris says, as softly as he can.  His voice sounds thick and choked to his own ears and he can’t quell the shivers of nerves running up and down his spine.  He clears his throat and rubs his clammy palms against his thighs.

“Chris, I-” Darren stops and his shoulders draw in, tight and protective.  He licks his lips and Chris watches the subtle movement of his throat. 

Chris swallows and takes a subtle step towards Darren.  He  _knows_.  Darren doesn’t need to say anything else or do any more. 

“Yeah,” is what Chris says, because he doesn’t have anything left.  Not that night.

“I can’t do this again,” Darren continues after a long, reflective moment.  “Not with you.”

It’s just a show; it’s just a script.  It’s not  _them_.  And yet somehow, this time, in a way that it never has before, it’s become too close and too personal.  It’s dark and frightening, and Chris can’t even blame character bleed for the twisting in his gut and the way he can’t seem to take a deep enough breath. 

“Can we…” the question goes unfinished as Darren’s eyes slide off to the side, towards the little cluster of white trailers.  Chris nods, thankful that Darren asked for what he didn’t think he could.

***

Their trailer is dark and quiet; it almost always is these days.  The gaiety and fun of Chris’ own space has been put aside for the moment.  He can’t say he exactly misses it.

Darren unbuttons his coat but doesn’t take it off.  His eyes are dark on Chris’ and unblinking, heavy-lidded and somehow suddenly tranquil, as he lies back on the couch.  He reaches out for Chris’ hands and Chris gives them over easily.  He shivers at the slide of Darren’s warm skin against his own cool palms and he goes willingly when Darren tugs him forward and down. 

Chris stretches out on top the solid heat of Darren’s body and cannot stop the bone weary sigh that escapes him.  Darren’s thighs part, making room for Chris, and one of his legs curls around the back of Chris’ calf, holding him close as though Chris would ever pull back.  Darren’s arms are strong and secure around him and Chris buries his face in Darren’s throat.  He smells of the crisp night air, the lingering traces of his cologne, and the earthy dirt of the coffee he’s been drinking all night.  He smells excruciatingly familiar.  The starched collar of Darren’s shirt is scratchy against Chris’ nose and his stubble rasps across Chris’ forehead and he doesn’t care at all.  He burrows in deeper, shifting until the dips of him fit into the hills of Darren.

Chris isn’t light, despite the slim cut of his clothes and the narrowness of his hips, and he would worry about his weight crushing Darren into the couch cushions if he wasn’t so used to it.  Even if he’s never put it into words, Darren likes to be held down like this; it’s all there in the way his body lets go of all its tension and melds into the counterpart shape of Chris.  He likes to be confined under the easy weight of Chris’ body – covered, comforted, and surrounded by the scent and bulk and heat of him.  Chris never knows if he’s keeping Darren from flying away or tearing apart. 

The moment stretches long until Chris feels the swell of Darren’s belly against his own as Darren draws in a deep, slow breath before he relaxes further.  Chris can tell the moment Darren’s body finally gives way to relaxation.  His hipbones are solid and sharp against Chris’ and so are the edges of his ribcage, but his stomach is firm and his chest rises against Chris’ with every matched breath.  Chris can feel the flex of Darren’s biceps as he grips him close and strokes his fingers through his hair, and Chris presses his lips to the pulse point of Darren’s throat.

They’re not going to have much time before a harried PA comes looking for them.  But there’s time enough, just barely, for two hearts chasing a common beat and the long stretch of two bodies searching for an edge of comfort amidst what feels like a crisis, but isn’t really.  And never could be.


End file.
